


Liar

by anonymous0503



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Confessions, Gen, Mild Language, One Shot, The Institute (Fallout), The Railroad (Fallout), Threats of Violence, Unrequited Love, lying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-19 07:01:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29870937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymous0503/pseuds/anonymous0503
Summary: Deacon is a liar to his core, but when Wanderer's mission in the Institute takes a serious turn, he has nothing to offer when she comes looking for truth.
Relationships: Deacon & Female Sole Survivor, Deacon & Sole Survivor (Fallout)
Kudos: 1





	Liar

“I’m in love with you.”

That wasn’t what Deacon expected.

She’d been quiet and reserved ever since she got back from the Institute — damn near somber. He thought it had something to do with her kid, Shaun. The first time she teleported out, she told him the Institute didn’t have her baby. After all she’d been through to track down Kellogg and find a way into the Institute, only to come up empty-handed, her glum mood would make sense. He offered to help her keep looking, wherever the path may lead, but she didn’t respond. The way she spoke, it sounded like there was no more path, no more leads. Perhaps she had given up. 

At least she hadn’t given up on the mission. She returned to the Institute, ingratiating herself and running their errands. If he thought watching her particles vaporize on the teleportation platform was painful, it was nothing compared to tracking her movement through Libertalia with a courser as her only backup. 

The way she threw herself back into the mission, he assumed she was trying to forget about the awful news, but if anything, the last week had seen her grow more and more demoralized. He asked her about it, because partners look out for each other, but her response was absolutely the last thing he expected to hear. 

“Sorry, I don’t think I heard that right,” he said, shifting on the ground uncomfortably. “Could you run that by me one more time?” 

“I said I’ve fallen in love with you,” she repeated with a slight frown. “Didn’t think it’d be that hard to understand.” 

He sat in silence, mind reeling. The barking of a wild dog in the distance provided the perfect excuse to look over his shoulder. 

“Say something,” she said finally. 

“I mean,” he said, breaking a grin, “is that it? I thought it was something important.” 

She did not appear amused. The fire crackled between them. 

He continued, “Have you talked to MacCready? He’s obviously got a crush on me too, and I think it’d be unfair if-” 

She grabbed a rock and chucked it off to the side. “Damn it Deacon! Can’t you be serious for once?” 

His upper back was beginning to itch, but contorting around to scratch it probably wouldn’t look too convincing in that moment. She used to laugh at his jokes. 

After she smoothed her hair back, she fixed him with a demanding stare. Maybe it was a woman thing, but Des had the same look whenever he over embellished a simple exchange. 

“Did I ever tell you about the time I reunited two young lovers across-” 

“No made-up stories,” she cut him off again. “No more lies. The truth.” 

“The truth?” he echoed. “Well, for starters, I don’t think Des or Carrington would approve.” 

They sat in silence for at least a minute. Her expression didn’t change. Meanwhile, Deacon tried to look everywhere except directly at her. It was fun watching other people suffer through awkward situations; being in the middle of one wasn’t as fun. 

“That’s it?” she said. “That’s all you have to say?” 

“What do you want me to say?” he asked with a nervous chuckle. “Do you want to book the church or shall I?” 

With a scoff, she stood up and went over to her bag. When she started putting things inside, he got to his feet. 

“We heading out?” he asked. “Thought we were staying here for the night.” 

“I’m not,” she threw back. “Not anymore. I try to tell you something personal, something that’s been weighing on me for a while, and I get brushed off. Jokes.” 

Crap. It sounded like she would start crying in another two or three sentences. 

“Wanderer,” he began gently. 

“That’s not my name,” she yelled, turning toward him. “You know it. Use it.” 

He paused, rolling his tongue around in his mouth. “Nora.” She waited. “I . . .” He couldn’t finish the sentence. What was he supposed to say? 

“You what?” she said, scowl cracking into a broken smile. “Everything’s either a secret or a lie with you. Your role in founding the Railroad, your recall code. I fell in love with you — I don’t even know your real name. And I thought, that’s fine, he’s really a good guy. He makes you laugh. He’s just got a dangerous job. And that was fine. But then just more and more of the same. You did a lot of talking, but it was all lies. I’m not fine with it anymore.” She must have seen something on his face, because she took a break from her rant. “You disagree? Go on then, say something. _Try_ to not lie to me.” 

His mind blanked. Talk about being put on the spot. “I like you too.” 

Her rigid posture loosened, but then she turned her head. He hadn’t given his mouth permission to say anything. 

“Now you’re just saying what I want to hear,” she said as she lifted her bag on her shoulder. 

“Hold on,” he pleaded before she could walk away. “I don’t know why I said that.” 

“I do,” she replied. “It’s a lie.” 

She wiped her eyes. He hadn’t been able to stop her from crying. 

“I can’t believe anything you say,” she said softly. “Don’t follow me.” 

One push of a button and blinding light covered the spot where she stood. It was gone in an instant, and Deacon was left with giant black spots swimming in his eyes. 

That night set off a cascading decline that continued for the next few weeks. Suddenly, Deacon found himself without a partner and despite his objections to the contrary, he found it difficult to go back to solo work. Apparently she hadn’t abandoned them completely — just him. She still checked in at HQ, but then she started checking in less often, writing shorter reports. In response, Des started pressuring him to pressure her for information. War with the Institute loomed on the horizon. 

Eventually, he had to come clean about his break with Wanderer. He changed the reason for their split, but they still gave him pitying looks whenever he came in without her. To rub salt on the wound, when Desdemona went against his suggestion and confronted her about it, she merely verified that she didn’t want to work with Deacon anymore. 

So he sent word out to his network of informants, and soon enough, reports came in. She was spending more time topside now. Goodneighbor, Diamond City, and a handful of smaller settlements all reported seeing her. She took up traveling with Piper, Dogmeat, MacCready, and Preston — who he knew for a fact she couldn’t stand. But whenever he showed up, she was gone. 

He had plenty of time, chasing her between settlements, to mull over the events of that night. It was upsetting, in the same way that discovering a mole rat sleeping on your pillow is upsetting, to hear that she loved him. It was even more upsetting to remember his response. 

“I like you too.” He still couldn’t figure out where that came from. After everything that happened to him, and everything currently going on, he hadn’t allowed himself to think about Wanderer — Nora — that way. She deserved better. 

But then he said it and she didn’t believe him. That hurt. They were partners for six months, and she brushed off his jokes and called him on his elaborate stories many times. She had never flat-out rejected something he said. 

She asked for the truth, and what he said wasn’t true. If that was all there was to it, it wouldn’t still be bothering him. Ultimately, it bothered him because it wasn’t a lie. It was still a bad idea, but he did like her. Not the way she wanted him to. It wasn’t enough. He didn’t think he could be enough. 

As he crouched in a half-collapsed building, swapping his wastelander camo for laid-back HQ attire and transferring the contents of his pockets, a familiar crumpled piece of paper fell to the ground. Months ago, he wrote down one of the only truths he possessed and handed it to her. “You can’t trust everyone.” She didn’t call him on his synth lie right away, but when she did, she gave him back the piece of paper. Underneath his mantra, she wrote a response: “You can’t _not_ trust anyone.” It irked him that her handwriting looked smaller and neater compared to his. 

She told him, “You’re right. Still, there has to be at least one.” 

He slipped the paper into his pocket and stashed his disguise behind the fridge. 

When he walked into the catacombs, he could immediately tell something was off. Conversations were quiet and held at distances of two feet or less. There’d been no news of an Institute attack, and no news was good news. Still, he felt eyes on his back as he moved to the heart of the hideout. 

Finally, something out of place appeared in the corner of his eye, and he had to do a double take. Wanderer’s name sat near the bottom of their agent list on the chalkboard, where it had been since she officially joined. Someone had drawn a strikeout through her name. 

“What’s this all about?” he questioned, marching to the board to begin smudging out the line. “Who did this?” 

“I did,” Desdemona replied, watching him from the central table. 

“Care to explain why?” His efforts were making a mess, and he considered erasing her name and writing it fresh. 

She blew out a plume of smoke. “We need to consider the realities of what we’re seeing,” she said evenly. 

“She wouldn’t betray us,” he insisted, turning from the board. 

“No one’s seen her in over a week,” Glory said. “Face it D — she ghosted us.” 

“She’s been sighted in Diamond City and County Crossing in the last three days,” Deacon argued. 

“Doing what exactly?” Desdemona said. “Nothing to do with the Railroad, that much is clear. If she’s no longer working with us, we cannot ignore the possibility that she’s been infiltrated.” 

“She wouldn’t betray us,” he repeated. “You think she’s been replaced?” 

“Personally, I don’t.” Which meant someone — probably Carrington — thought so. “Given what we know about her pre-war background, I don’t think it would take that extreme of a measure to shift her loyalty.” 

So that was it. They assumed she’d seen the technological advancement and general cleanliness of the Institute and immediately released all of her animosity and morals for the chance at an easier life. They were encouraging him to listen to his own advice, to not trust her. Trust had nothing to do with it. He knew she wouldn’t betray them like that. 

They hadn’t been there, but Deacon had. When they cleared The Switchboard, she put a shawl over the face of each fallen agent, and when H2-22 didn’t recognize her after his memory wipe, she cried. Her temple still bore the scar from escorting him to Ticonderoga. She rescued Amelia Stockton without payment and nearly broke her hand on Rhys’s face following an unkind remark about Nick Valentine. 

He spun on his heel and walked away. 

“Where are you going?” Glory called after him. 

“I’m going to go find her,” he replied. 

“Not so fast,” Desdemona said. “We have to consider the possibility that our location, and perhaps our entire operation, has been compromised. We need you here.” 

“Can’t hear you,” Deacon called as the main room disappeared around a corner. “I’m going through a tunnel.” 

Diamond City was first on his list of stops. He slipped into the Publick Occurrences building to see if the reporter was in. She appeared to be in the middle of repairing her printing press — hair tied back, dressed in an old mechanic’s jumpsuit, grease stains on her cheek. Admittedly, dropping in to see Piper wasn’t the smartest idea. All she did was throw wrenches at his head and yell curses at him for being a “hard-headed man.” The press would never get fixed at that rate. 

After escaping her incoherent wrath, he ambled down to the detective agency. The locals said he was back in town, and the old synth was his first choice for information anyway. 

Based on Piper’s reaction, he expected the cold shoulder. However, Nick was his usual friendly self. The synth admitted that she confided in him about her confession and its fallout. Made sense — she wouldn’t tell Piper without also telling Nick. 

“I gotta find her, Nick,” he said. “HQ’s going nuts. They think she’s siding with the Institute.” 

“What do you think?” 

He paused. In the catacombs, he was sure she would never betray them. When a dead drop on the way to Diamond City reported that Wanderer had been spotted with an Institute pistol strapped to her hip, he’d immediately dismissed the credibility of the witness. Valentine wasn’t concerned, and he was one of her closest friends. 

So he deflected. “Someone said they spotted her out by Hangman’s Alley, killing raiders. Said she traded her 10mm for a laser pistol, and not the kind carried around by the Brotherhood.” 

“You mean this one?” Nick asked, opening one of his desk drawers. He set Deliverer, holster and all, on top of the scattered case files. 

Deacon sat in silence, remembering the day he handed the tiny hand cannon off. It made him proud to see her using it. Eventually, it became her primary firearm. Seeing it apart from her was like looking at a severed limb. 

“She’s been going through a lot recently,” Nick said, “including that bit of personal business with you.” 

“What kind of stuff?” he asked. 

The old synth shook his head. “It’s not my place to say.” 

“Then I need to find her.” 

Nick leaned back in his chair with a thoughtful look. 

“Do you know where she is?” Deacon prompted. 

“No, I don’t,” he replied. 

A flicker of doubt crossed his mind. At the same time, he figured that since she now had the power of teleportation at her fingertips, there truly was no telling where she could be one minute or the next. Either way, the synth didn’t want to tell him. 

“Want me to send her a message?” Nick offered. 

“You can do that?” 

“Next time I see her, sure,” he said with a shrug. “What do you want me to say?” 

“I’m looking for her. It’s important.” 

“Short and sweet then. I’ll pass it along,” Nick assured him. 

With a nod, Deacon got up to leave, but the detective stopped him. 

“Here, take this with you,” he said, holding out Deliverer. “She left it with me, but it belongs with you.” 

Deacon nodded and grabbed the pistol, but Nick held it tight. 

“Don’t screw it up this time.” 

A couple days later, Deacon ascended the stairs at the Hotel Rexford. There had been no new reports about Wanderer’s whereabouts, and Goodneighbor was one of the least-recent places she visited, which made it just as good a place as any to disappear and wait for news. 

The room was familiar, and he placed Deliverer under his pillow to sleep. You could never be too careful, especially in Goodneighbor. He wished he could ask Tommy for advice. That man was freaky levels of smart. 

A loud bang startled him awake. It sounded uncomfortably close and he had Deliverer aimed at the far corner of the room before his brain caught up to his arm. 

“You wanted to talk? Let’s talk,” she said, voice hard. 

It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room coupled with his sunglasses. When he could see, he still had trouble believing that Wanderer was sitting in the corner of the room, fist clenched against the wall where she had struck. 

“If you’re going to shoot me, I don’t want to hear a monologue about morality beforehand,” she added. 

Remembering Deliverer in his hand, he dropped his arm. “How’d you get in?” he asked as he sat up, voice rough from sleep. 

“Never heard of lock picks?” 

“Hancock ratted me out, huh?” 

“Leave him out of this,” she warned. “You wanted to talk to me? Well I’m here. Don’t waste my time.” 

He got up, holding out the pistol. “Here.” 

“Don’t want it,” she snipped. 

“Why not? I thought it was your favorite.” 

“10mm ammo is a little hard to come by in the Institute.” 

He rubbed his temple. “You really gotta stop saying things like that. HQ thinks you’re working with them.” 

“You can quit worrying about HQ. I went there first. Des pulled a gun on me. And Carrington.” 

“You can’t blame Carrington,” he said. “He forgets people’s faces in less than an hour. One time he-” 

“Don’t lie to me,” she barked. “If all you can do is lie, then just keep your mouth shut. I went to HQ and I’ll tell you the same thing I told them. The mission hasn’t changed. I still want to help them free the synths, but things are taking a little long. Complications. I’m working through them. Now, either they’ll believe me and stop the evacuation plans, or they won’t, in which case they’re probably already gone.” 

“What kind of complications?” he asked. Questions were probably safe. 

“The kind I don’t want to tell you about,” she replied. 

“But it involves me?” 

“No. That was an effect, not a cause.” 

He absent-mindedly flipped the small pistol between his hands, once again wishing that Tommy was here to help him figure out this cryptic situation. 

She straightened in her chair. “If that’s all you wanted to say, I have people waiting for me.” 

“In the Institute?” 

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Point the gun if you’re going to make accusations.” 

He tossed Deliverer on top of his pack. “I’m just trying to figure out what the hell is going on.” 

She rose and crossed the room to take a seat on the mattress, but there was nothing friendly in her poise. He regretted giving her the “distance isn’t intimidating” lesson. 

“Let me put it simply,” she said. “I am an agent for the Railroad, working on infiltrating the Institute. The job has unique complications. I recently confessed to you, my partner, that I’m in love with you. But you don’t love me back. Fine, that’s fair. I can’t force anyone to love anybody. But I don’t want to work with someone that I have unrequited feelings for. It’d be too painful. So now I’m back at it, alone. Normal job complications.” 

“It’s not that simple,” he muttered. When had he started pacing? 

“Oh really?” she challenged. “Then let’s try this. No lies, no deflections, no humorous anecdotes. Deacon, do you love me?” 

He looked at the floor. What an unfair question. If he told the truth, said he didn’t think of her that way, she’d leave. If he lied, she’d know. 

“I don’t know,” he said instead. It was a lame response. 

“Then there’s nothing more to say.” 

“Yes there is,” he insisted louder than intended.

They paused, both waiting for who knew what. Perhaps a missing nuke would fall from the sky and destroy the hotel, saving him from what he was about to do. Every piece inside him screamed and fought as he wobbled over to the mattress and sat beside her. 

She warned, “If you lie to me . . .” 

“I know,” he replied. It felt like there was a butterfly knife in his stomach.

Then he forced his mouth open and told her everything. About the University Point Deathclaws, about Barbara — everything. After all these years, those wounds hadn’t healed, because they were bleeding freely again. Saying his late wife’s name was worse than being shot, but he said it again and again and again. He had to make her understand that there was something broken inside of him. He couldn’t love her, even if he wanted to. 

And when he was finished, hands shaking and lungs clenching as if he’d run five miles through a minefield, she shook her head and turned the same broken smile toward him. 

“I don’t believe you,” she said. 

“What? It’s true,” he insisted as she stood up and crossed the room. “What can I say to make you believe me?” 

She turned to face him; she looked as hurt and helpless as he felt. 

“I don’t think you can.” Then she was gone. 

How could she not believe him? After he poured out his soul to her, bared the biggest secret from his past, reopened old wounds, and almost let a few tears escape? 

What he said about Barbara was the truth. Mostly. It was as close as he could get without ripping out his lungs and gouging out his eyes. He could never speak her real name, could never utter the things they told each other in secret, but what difference did it make to Nora? She flat-out called him a liar when he was giving her the best he could do. No credit for trying? 

When he got back to HQ, Deacon was surprised to see people still moving in and out of the room-like tunnels. Gone were the frantic whispers of evacuation and betrayal, but in their place remained a heavy fog of cautious acceptance. It tasted bitterly of resignation. 

Though he didn’t need to ask, Des’s stern expression might deepen to a scowl with the right prodding. 

“Am I still in time for the big send off?” he quipped, a light bounce in his step. 

She bowed her head. The cigarette pinched in her fingers had burned down to the filter. 

“Did you know?” she said at length. 

“I know plenty of things.” He adjusted his sunglasses. “It’s my official unofficial job description.” 

“C’mon Des,” Glory interrupted. “You know he’n Wanderer broke up. If he did know, he would’ve told us. He’s not _that_ dense.” 

“I take offense at that,” he chided, though his interest was piqued at the prospect of new information on Wanderer. 

Desdemona sighed. She hadn’t looked this glum since The Switchboard fell. 

“There’s no use in evacuating,” she said, deadpan. “The Institute knows where we are.” 

Ice crystals crept up his spine. It didn’t sound like a blatant accusation, but there was no alternative. 

“Wait a minute,” he replied. “Are you saying Wanderer told them our location?” 

“She didn’t have to. She teleported into the center of this very room less than an hour ago. And then she teleported out.”

No way. Wanderer told him that she was on their side. She promised. 

“I thought I detected the slight aroma of plasma in the air,” he said instead. “But I’m guessing, by the lack of coursers in the halls, that we aren’t about to get attacked.” 

Tinker Tom spoke up. “It’s like she said. Either they can’t track her movement, which is highly unlikely . . .” 

“Or she really does possess enough authority in the Institute to keep them from wiping us out,” Des said. 

“Uh, authority?” he echoed. 

“That’s what she said,” Glory said with a shrug. 

“Well, if you think you can trust her,” he said noncommittally, “and them to not go behind her back . . .” 

“We don’t really have a choice,” Desdemona said. “Moving would accomplish nothing besides losing some of our people on the way to a new safehouse. Wanderer said she was still loyal to the Railroad and to its cause. I would find that hard to believe except for the fact that we’re still here.” 

The room took a moment of silence, looking around as if verifying yes — we are still here. 

“Going back to this whole ‘authority’ thing,” Deacon said. “Yeah, what’s that all about?” 

“We’re not sure,” Des replied. “She wouldn’t say.” 

“We also have to wonder,” Carrington growled from his corner, “what such authority may have cost. How many reclaimed synths did it take for her to get in their good graces?” He slammed a prototype Stealth Boy on his desk. “We went too far when we asked her to work as a double agent. She was the wrong choice to send. We may be safe for now, but it was clear long before today that we wouldn’t be able to rely on her indefinitely.” 

“D,” Glory called out. “You worked with her the longest, and I know your whole philosophy about not trusting anyone, but what do you think? Can we trust Wanderer?” 

All eyes turned on him. It was a singularly unpleasant experience, and he thrust his hands in his pockets for an aloof sense of familiarity. He was used to giving reports and even briefing the home team on hot developments. The expectation to pass judgment on a former partner, on something so intangible and so contradictory to everything he was — it left him empty, Deliverer weighing heavily against the small of his back. 

He wanted to fall back on his classic line, to say that he never trusted her, not when she joined, not when she provided cover fire for him against a barrage of synth laser blasts, not when she told him about her missing son, not when she pulled two bullets out of his chest and kept watch all night in case more super mutants showed up. Then his hand brushed against the crumpled piece of paper at the bottom of his pocket. 

He bowed his head in shame, because it was true. He’d been lying to himself. 

“Deacon?” Des pressed. 

Shrugging, he cracked his neck. “Doesn’t matter. You obviously think there’s something to her claims, otherwise you wouldn’t still be here.” 

“We bet _everything_ on her ability to access the Institute and expose its weaknesses,” Des said. “Finding a way inside, and ultimately building the signal interceptor, was our focus these last few months, and we couldn’t have done any of it without Wanderer. We’re in this too far to pull out now, not while there’s still a chance everything could go favorably.” 

“This is the same thinking that led to what happened at The Switchboard,” Carrington added. “Small leaks, oversights in security, waiting for too long.” 

“Project Wanderer was always meant to be the final mission,” Desdemona argued. “Either it would succeed, all the synths would be freed, and the Institute would be no more, or it would fail, and inevitably spell the end of the Railroad. There were no. Other. Alternatives.” 

Silence fell upon the catacombs, each agent chewing on the implications of their leader’s words. For an organization dedicated to backdoors and “plan B’s,” this all-or-nothing finality left them in new territory. 

“Deacon,” Des continued, softer. “You need to find Wanderer and make contact.” 

“Me? You said it yourself — she wants nothing to do with me.” There was also the matter of what happened in Goodneighbor to consider. 

“Then go to her friends. Get one of them to talk,” she insisted. “We have to know what’s going on inside the Institute.” 

“Is this an ask-nicely-get-them-to-talk or a break-out-the-thumb-screws-and-truth-serum-get-them-to-talk?” he asked. 

“In the meantime,” Des went on, ignoring him, “we will continue operations here as usual. There are still synths to move, and while the Institute may have gone dark, the Brotherhood continues to oppose our efforts.” She paused. “This information does not leave HQ. Our various safehouses and midway points should stay on alert.” 

“Agreed,” Carrington and Glory chimed in. 

By the end of the week, Deacon found himself back in Goodneighbor. After hiking the entire Commonwealth and back again, he still hadn’t managed to track down Wanderer. To make matters worse, the Brotherhood was up in a royal tizzy, and his pilfered orange jumpsuit disguise got him no closer to uncovering why. One thing went without saying — because no one was saying it — Wanderer was most likely involved. 

But she was nowhere to be found. The Minutemen were sitting fat and happy on a smattering of well-supplied settlements, and her absence didn’t bother them one bit. Diamond City was living the high life of bigots and frauds. When he visited the agency, Ellie told him Nick was out on another missing persons case. Despite the synth’s unmistakable appearance and reputation, Deacon had no luck finding him either. 

Hancock was downright hostile when he stepped into Goodneighbor, and he had to bow his head while the ghoul shoved him around, demanding to know what he did to Sunshine. Pushing back would only award him the status of target practice for the Neighborhood Watch. For someone so fixated on the truth, she evidently didn’t see the need to share it among her friends. 

An abandoned basement was his hideout of choice this time; he didn’t want to go back to the Rexford. Sleep had never been his best friend, but even the effort hadn’t been worth it recently. After cleaning Deliverer and repacking his backup disguise, he resigned himself to another fruitless day of trying to find someone who didn’t want to be found. 

A shadow in the hallway twitched, and Deacon drew his pistol with lightning speed. 

“You’re a hard man to find,” said a familiar drawl. Glowing yellow eyes appeared beneath the brim of a tipped fedora. 

“I could say the same thing about you,” Deacon replied, returning Deliverer to its holster. “Ellie said you were out on a case. Anyone I know?” 

“You, actually,” the synth said. “It seems we ran each other in circles.” 

“You wanna put that down?” Deacon asked, casually gesturing to the detective’s rusty pipe revolver. “This close, I might get hearing loss. Well, _more_ hearing loss.” 

“I wouldn’t. Then again, that’s just me.” Hancock appeared behind him, arms crossed over his chest. In one hand, he held a mini blunderbuss, the muzzle resting on the shoulder of his velvet coat. 

“Whoa, hey,” he chuckled, throwing up his hands, “I’m loving the old-timey buddy cop stick up. Though with her newfound interest in the Institute, you two’d be the last people I’d cast in the roles of Nora’s personal hit squad. I was envisioning black trench coats? Reflective Aviators?” His pulse was climbing at an alarming rate. Hopefully sprinkling equal measures of doubt and information would cause them to either drop their threat or volunteer more information to dispel the doubt. 

“Are you that paranoid? Damn.” Hancock shook his head while Nick holstered his revolver. 

“And that’s coming from someone who called her a friend,” Nick said. 

“Aren’t we all friends here?” Deacon said lightly. 

“I don’t tolerate people who hurt my friends,” Hancock growled. 

“Or abandon them,” Nick added. “You need to find her and fix this.” 

“What do you think I’ve been doing all this time? Also, in case you didn’t know, she’s the one that split up the dynamic duo, _and_ told me not to follow her.” 

“And what about Shaun?” Hancock demanded. 

“What about him? I offered to help her keep looking, but she sounded like she gave up,” Deacon said. “I’ve been trying to ‘find her and fix it,’ but she doesn’t want to be found and no one wants to tell me what’s going on.” 

An awkward silence settled between them. Eventually, the mayor swore under his breath and clipped his firearm to his belt. 

“Hold on,” Deacon muttered. “You both know what it is, don’t you? You know and you won’t tell me? C’mon, you were ready to shoot me over it a minute ago.” 

“That option’s still on the table,” Hancock warned. 

“Does it have to do with Shaun?” he asked. “She told me the Institute didn’t have him.” 

“It’s a lot more than just that,” Nick said. “However . . .” 

“‘It’s not your place to say,’ right?” 

The synth nodded. 

“I want you outta my town,” Hancock said with a hostile tip of his head. 

“Technically, I’m underneath it right now,” he explained. 

The ghoul turned with a shake of his head and strode out. 

“It’s probably best if he doesn’t see you, or any of your alternate looks for a while,” Nick said. “He idolizes Nora. Seeing her in this much pain breaks his heart, ‘cause he can’t do anything but wait for her to show up.” 

“So, she’s in pain?” 

“She’s sad.” He paused. “It’s not the kind that just needs some cheering up. Still, I figured that if there was anyone that could come close, it was you.” 

Deacon shoved his hands in his pockets, scuffing the toe of his boot against the dirty brick floor. “Great. No pressure then.” 

“Take care of yourself,” Nick said before departing. 

Nineteen days — no news. Deacon patrolled atop the Castle’s walls, hot underneath his pompadour wig but cooled by the breeze coming off the bay. He’d been in the same jeans and flannel shirt with rolled sleeves long enough to start developing a tan. To make matters worse, he now had a rust-colored beard with more than a couple days’ growth. 

“Hey, new guy,” Preston called, waving to him from the courtyard. 

The Minuteman lieutenant understood Deacon’s work enough to comply with his request for discretion, calling him “new guy” instead of trying to keep up with his roster of cover stories. He descended the stairs, rifle bumping against his shoulder blade. 

“You’re wanted in the cold rooms,” Preston explained, pointing over his shoulder. “I’ll take over here.” 

With a word of thanks and a respectful nod, he headed for the subterranean tunnels used to store their perishable food, advanced weaponry, and artillery shells. The Minutemen still used the armory for day-to-day operations but had seen fit to take advantage of the extra space and cool temperatures for long-term storage. 

Descending the stairs and stepping into the familiar tunnels, he expected to find a random settler with an inventory list waiting for him. Instead, the first room was empty. 

“Hello?” he called, strolling deeper. If no one minded, he might as well grab a mutfruit or two to snack on. Goosebumps raised along his arms in response to the cold air. 

“Are you the one I’m looking for?” a voice from his left asked, causing Deacon to jump. 

Shortly after regaining the armory, the Minutemen replaced the lights in the derelict tunnels, but apparently not in the small offshoot compartments in the hallways. Despite his shadowed hiding spot, and Deacon’s shades, he could tell the man had dark skin like Garvey’s. 

“What’s with the cloak and dagger?” Deacon joked. “I was told somebody wanted to see me.” 

“Then you’re the one I’m looking for,” the man replied, stepping forward. 

He wore muddy boots, cargo pants, a gray shirt, and a beat-up suit jacket. As he continued speaking, his low, unwavering tone sent icy panic up Deacon’s neck. 

“You are to accompany me,” he said. “And I would prefer if you did not resist.” 

A tip of his head, and the floodlights gleamed across his Aviator sunglasses, transforming them into a blinding mirror-like surface. 

_Courser_. 

“Whoa hey,” Deacon said with a forced chuckle. He tossed up his hands and took a casual step back. “I think you may have me confused with someone else. Who’re you looking for? I might know him.” 

“I was not told your name; I understand you do not use it.” The man advanced. “I reiterate: it would be best if you do not resist.” 

“What’s the matter? Never heard of anyone killing a courser before?” 

The synth stopped. A momentary flicker of surprise passed across his stony face. “You are perceptive,” he deadpanned. 

“It’s in the job description,” Deacon replied with a nonchalant wave. He continued using wide, sweeping gestures as he spoke. “Quite frankly, the monotone voice is giving me some serious chills. Have you ever done surface reconnaissance missions? No one talks like that up here. You could really benefit from some natural elocution lessons. I know this guy, let me get you in touch with him, and then-” 

His hand followed the curve of his gesture and landed on the stock of his rifle. Before he even had time to shift the weapon’s weight, the courser bolted forward and stopped his wrist in a crushing grip. 

“Your excessive talking is irritating.” 

A sudden flash of blinding light left Deacon dry heaving on a smooth floor. A splitting headache located square between his eyes caught up with him a few seconds later. Two pairs of hands grabbed him by the arms and dragged him onward. 

The walls, the floor — everything was a piercing white and seemed to give off a fluorescent glow. It stung his sensitive eyes, and he wasn’t coordinated enough to adjust the sunglasses that were slipping down his nose. In between the heaving and squinting, Deacon forced himself to look at the scenery passing by. 

The Institute. Only a handful of surface dwellers had laid eyes on this pristine bastion of egotistical science. He didn’t put much faith in the idea that he would leave alive. Perhaps Nora finally decided it was time to get rid of him. Maybe she would make a synth replica of himself to keep her company — program him not to lie to her and to say the words he couldn’t bring himself to say. 

As the coursers opened automatic doors and carried him off the whisper-quiet elevator, he considered the possibility that a synth replica of himself wouldn’t be that bad. Most replacements on the surface were either undetectable clones or equally undetectable double agents. Perhaps his copy could achieve something better than the original. 

At the end of the line, the stoic coursers dumped him on his face, leaving him to finish his coughing fit while trying to push himself up on weak arms. He was in a single-residence room — one bed, a couple tables, pristine decorations. 

The courser that ambushed him in the tunnels, the one with the dark skin and razor-straight hairline, was now dressed in the long, dark coat customary to elite coursers. As Deacon adjusted his sunglasses, the heartless hitman knelt in a corner, placing his hand on a curled person’s shoulder. 

“Ma’am?” he said. “I have brought you a visitor.” 

Nora lifted her head and Deacon froze. No use, she spotted him anyway. 

“Oh no,” she groaned. “What’s he doing here?” 

She was a mess. Hair unkempt, eyes red and puffy, even her crisp white lab coat was crumpled and dusty from being bunched up on the floor. Spread around the corner she tucked herself into sat a collection of small items. A glass of water, a pillow, a picture frame, a portion of food, some folded clothes. Based on their proximity and spread, as well as the blanket wadded in her lap, the items had been placed by someone else, someone looking out for her. 

Someone, based on his gentle hand, was this courser. 

“It is advised to surround one’s self with close friends and family when experiencing grief,” he told her, though the words sounded parroted from a self-help pamphlet. 

“He’s the last person I want to see right now,” she replied with a sniff. 

“My apologies, ma’am,” the courser said, standing. “I have miscalculated. Would you like me to return him to the surface?” 

“He is a member of the Railroad,” the second courser argued. “Returning him could pose a security threat.” 

Deacon had to do a double take to confirm the words’ origin. The courser had the same emotionless voice as the first, almost identical in inflection and tone. Creepy.

“That is enough, Z4,” the first said. “You may go.” 

He left the room, and Deacon was left with the original courser and Nora. Again, the courser took a knee beside her and rested his gloved hand on her shoulder. 

“I can place him in a holding area if you wish to decide later,” he said. 

“That may be best,” she whispered. 

“Don’t send me away,” Deacon pleaded. “Please, don’t. Tie me down, gag me for all I care — just tell me what’s going on. I think MacCready took a pot shot at me the other day, and I’ve got Nick and Hancock breathing down my neck about finding you, but that doesn’t matter. Partners don’t abandon each other.” He paused, sitting back on his haunches. “I understand why you don’t want to see me, but I’m here for you, partner. I will _always_ be in your corner.” 

Her face was vulnerable, yet unwilling. Somehow, the Institute got its immaculate claws into her. He taught her to be wary; they taught her to be wary of him. If he didn’t say something fast, she would dismiss him, either to a holding cell, the incinerator, or back to limbo on the surface. With her so close once again, he couldn’t decide which of those options would be worse. He found her, albeit dragged by a courser couple. Now he had to keep it that way. 

She opened her mouth to address her murder machine, but he beat her to it. 

“What happened to Shaun?” 

Nora went still. Shoulders tense and frown pronounced, an overwhelming pervasion of sadness prevented her rage from solidifying completely. 

“X6, will you give us the room?” 

The courser straightened. “I will wait outside the door in case you need anything.” 

“Thank you,” she murmured.

Alone at last. He had a million things he wanted to say to her, but it was his big mouth that got him in this position in the first place. He imagined a thread sewing his lips shut and gave her a sheepish smile.

“Who told you?” she asked. She sounded like she hadn’t been sleeping. 

So much for keeping quiet. Despite the implied permission to speak, he took a moment to choose his words. It was tough. Why did this feel like an interrogation?

“I don’t know everything,” he said slowly, “just that it has something to do with Shaun.” A pause, then, “For the record, you can blame Hancock.”

She let another long silence elapse, picking frays into the unfrayed blanket. Deacon busied himself inspecting the room — the clean edges, polished tabletops, and the tiny blue flowers painted on a vase. 

“I’m not a fan,” she said, snapping his attention back. She pointed at her face. “This. I’m not a fan.” 

He touched his beard. He didn’t care for it either, but it was literally growing on him. She probably wouldn’t appreciate the joke, so he merely smiled and nodded. 

When her focus returned to deconstructing the blanket, he scooted across the floor and took up a spot along the wall, a few feet beyond her circle of objects. 

“What happened, Nora?” he asked. “You said the Institute didn’t have your baby. What are you still doing here?” 

“I _didn’t_ find my baby,” she said, wiping at fresh tears. “I found an old man. A man who never knew his mother growing up, and he just _didn’t care_. He didn’t care that the people who took him murdered his father, and he didn’t care that his mother nearly died trying to find him again. He didn’t care, that even after all this time, his mother still wanted to spend time with him, to get to know the man he’d become.” She paused with a hiccup. 

“This was all he ever cared about,” she said, gesturing around. “The Institute. They stole him, harvested his DNA to manufacture the next generation of synths, and he became their director. This place, he was proud of it — proud of the scientists and excited to see what advancements might be made. 

“My son died last week,” she whispered. “He had an incurable disease, even with all the technology they had down here. I got one month with him, and now he’s gone — a stranger. I wanted to know about his life, about the kinds of things he liked, but all he could ever talk about was the Institute. He named me his successor, asked me to carry on his legacy, and now that he’s gone, all I have left is this place, the only thing he ever really cared about. 

“It’s _monstrous_.” When she looked through him, he swore he’d seen friendlier deathclaws. “ _My son_ was a monster. Everyone and everything down here is so cold and unfeeling and corrupted, and it sickens me that it’s the only piece of him I have left. 

“My baby. My darling boy. I carried him inside my body. I felt him move and grow. I loved him before he was born.” At this, she crumpled forward into the wadded blanket, and as her shoulders shook with muffled sobs, Deacon let himself grow numb. He never knew the joys of having a child, though at one point, he desperately wanted one. It seemed that he and Nora walked the same fate line — brief moments of happiness that would inevitably be taken away and turned into their deepest suffering. 

Nick had said, “Find her and fix it.” But would she accept comfort from a liar like him? Luckily, she didn’t give him too long to mull over his options, because the next moment, she was screaming. 

“This is all I had! This horrible place is all I had left! And I didn’t want to destroy it, no matter how much the Brotherhood or the Railroad or even the Minutemen wanted me to, because _he_ loved this awful, awful place. I thought that if I went along with his plans, and took over as director, at least I could make this place a little better. After all, I had nothing else. A woman out of time. All my friends and family are dead. My world was destroyed. My job no longer exists. The day my son told me he was dying — I realized that I really had nothing else but him. The Minutemen don’t need me anymore, and I was nothing more than a tool to the Brotherhood of Steel. I made friends, in that radioactive trash heap on the surface, but when it came down to it, I didn’t need them the way I needed to spend time with my son.” She paused. “And then there’s you.” 

Her focus was a physical thing. Sharp like a needle, it made him squirm ever so slightly away from her. And then it suddenly melted. Her face opened and she gave him a small smile. 

“I think you were the only person who could’ve changed my mind,” she said. “When I got the news of my son’s illness, I went to you. It was now or never, so I laid my cards on the table. You were the one person I found in this new world that I didn’t want to lose. But your response proved that I never really had you to begin with.” She hitched up her shoulders. “And, it was unfair of me to ask that of you. 

“So, I had no other reason to stay on the surface. I don’t belong up there. At least here, I have one final connection to my son.” 

“Nora,” he said, reaching out with his voice. 

“Don’t try to change my mind,” she replied, curling in on herself. “You already gave me your answer. I know it’ll just be another lie. You can go now.” 

The automatic door slid open and the courser strode toward him. 

“But-” 

“I said you can go now,” she repeated more sternly, turning her face away. 

The courser grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet, but Deacon strained against his grip. 

“Hold on. Don’t you even care what I think?” 

“Please do not resist,” recited the stoic guard. 

“I don’t want to hear it,” she said. 

With a twist and a quick yank, he broke free from the courser’s hold and advanced on her corner. “If all you hear from me is lies, listen up because I have something to say.” He continued speaking even after the courser grabbed him again. “First off, Nora, I _don’t_ love you.” 

He let that hang in the air for a few long moments. When it was clear her synth guardian was merely holding him in place, he went on. 

“I _don’t_ love you, and I _never_ trusted you. I also _never_ lied to you, even when you asked me not to. When we ran ops together, I _didn’t_ have your back. The _only_ reason I’m here is to get your annoying friends off my case. I _don’t_ love you, and I’m _not_ afraid of losing you. I’m _not_ afraid of myself, and what I might do or say. I’m _not_ a bad person. I’m _not_ someone who has regrets. I _don’t_ have doubts, and I’m _not_ ready to try. I _don’t_ want you to come back to the surface, and I _don’t_ want to see you again.” 

Lowering his head, he slumped against the courser’s hold. “Just, wanted you to know all that.” 

One minute passed. Then two. Deacon felt the courser’s pulse through his thick, synthesized-leather gloves. That spot between his shoulder blades itched. So did his face. And his hands.

Nora didn’t move. Face hidden, he couldn’t be sure what her expression said about his testimony. She was always open like that. When she did speak, her voice was quiet, but the courser snapped to attention at the first syllable.

“X6?”

“Yes ma’am?”

She took in a big breath, hunched shoulders shaking. “Take him far away.”

“No, wait,” he cried as the courser dragged him back. “You have to believe me, I never intended to hurt you.”

He struggled, begging her not to send him away as a second courser arrived to assist. Then a third. His glasses fell off his face as they wrestled against each other.

“Just teleport him out from here,” she yelled over the commotion, scooting away with her hands over her ears.

“Nora, please. We can work this out. Whatever you want, I’ll be there for you.”

She looked directly into his eyes, and said, “Liar.”

Deacon shouted out, but a blinding flash eclipsed all of his senses and she was gone.

Ropes squeaked and men grunted as the five-hundred-pound beam lifted off the ground.

“Keep it steady. Level out, level out!”

Onlookers watched from a safe distance as guide ropes straightened the swinging monstrosity without adding too much downward pressure.

“Whoa, hold it.” The man, himself straining against the ropes on the first team of pullers, gauged the clearance surrounding the square-cut log. Rivulets of sweat ran down his face before becoming lost in his thick, rusty beard. “Someone get some hooks over to that far side. You’ll have to lever it away from the support.”

Running along a skeleton of exposed planks, two young men angled their long, hooked poles between the existing structure and the floating beam. Slowly, it began to move, but the extra pressure had the men on the ground grunting with exertion.

“Tell us when it’s clear, and we’ll pull,” he called.

“Almost there,” one called back. “You’re clear!”

“Pull!”

The men pulled, and the beam lifted higher. Once clear, the hooks released their pressure, allowing it to travel straight up. After a few more yards, it reached the correct height.

“Alright boys, guide us in,” he yelled.

One story higher and waiting on a perpendicular ledge, the hook wielders grabbed the giant beam and slowly maneuvered it closer by drawing in their poles. The men on the ground did their best to hold the lines steady, when suddenly one side of the beam dropped a foot.

Directly behind the man who lost his grip, the one coordinating the lift strained against the extra weight, along with the rest of his team, until the man regained his hold on the rope.

“Team two, hold steady while we level out,” he called.

The first team pulled to regain their lost height, and he signaled to continue maneuvering the beam into place.

“Watch the corners. Try and get it good and straight.”

“Okay, lower it down.”

“Remember, nice and slow,” he addressed the men. “Walk it forward, don’t let the rope slip from your hands.”

The beam sunk into place beautifully. A collective cheer went up as the guys by the beam untied the ropes and let them fall. That was the final big piece. The rest was just siding, minor supports, and covering the roof.

Hands red and throbbing, the man approached a young woman watching from a corner.

“There, nothing to it,” he said. “You folks will have a barn well before winter sets in.”

“We can’t thank you enough, David. Please let us know if we can ever return the favor.”

“No thanks required. We’re neighbors now. That means we help each other out.”

After climbing down from the rafters, the young woman’s husband joined their conversation.

“Will you at least stay for dinner? Anna-May would never take the credit, but she’s been cooking all morning. There’s enough for everyone.”

The man smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I appreciate the offer, but I have other matters to attend to.”

“Take some with you,” Anna-May begged. “It’s the least we can do.”

After saying his goodbyes, David started up the road leading into town. Soon the leaves would be changing colors, and based on the fair weather, they might even see snow this year.

Nestled between the small Poultney River and the wider Newmont River draining from Lake Champlain in the north, the town’s name was Barton. The central hub, which contained most flavors of shops one could expect from a small town, was surrounded by individual family farms. And soon, there would be one more.

As he approached the town proper however, he noticed an unusual amount of activity. Adjusting the shoulder strap of his hunting rifle, he quickened his pace. The town doctor — a woman in her mid-thirties with short blonde hair — joined him on the main street.

“David, thank goodness,” she said.

“What’s going on?”

“It’s the Peters boy again,” she explained as they reached the crowd.

A group of three men David didn’t recognize stood in the center of the discussion. One of them had a rather disgruntled Sam Peters by the arm, while the others listened to Owen — the proprietor of the general store — try to diffuse the situation.

“The way I see it,” Owen said, “if Sam says he did nothing wrong, I can’t be sure he did anything wrong.”

“That’s right,” the scruffy boy piped up, “now make these bozos lay off.”

David approached. “Thanks Owen, I’ll handle it from here,” he said, laying his hand on the older man’s shoulder. “What seems to be the problem?”

“We caught this one hunting on our side of the river.”

“You losers are so full of it,” Sam taunted.

“You shut your mouth before we shut it for you.”

“Please!” David shouted. “Please. Release the boy. We don’t want this kind of conflict in Barton.”

“How can we be sure this won’t happen again?” the leader asked.

“I need to have a word with him first. Please.”

They released the boy, who ran up to David and threw a sneer back at the newcomers.

Clapping his hand on Sam’s shoulder, he asked, “Sam, did you go hunting on the New York side?”

“I’m not stupid! These jerks are just trying to shake us down.”

“And you have water in your boots because?”

“They can’t prove anything. They’re just looking to start a fight. You believe me, don’t you Mr. David?”

His blue eyes twinkled and he patted the boy’s shoulder. “No.”

A swift twist and a well-placed fist had the youth doubling over, wheezing pitifully. Dusting off his hands, he stepped toward the men.

“Like I said, we don’t want conflict in Barton. Please, accept our humble apology. We can assure you this one will be kept under a much tighter watch.”

After a moment of mental debate, the leader tipped his head. “’preciate it.” Turning, they left.

Roy Peters emerged from the crowd to collect his son. “Thank you David,” he said.

He nodded, keeping watch as the rest of the residents dispersed to return to their homes or to discuss the most exciting thing to happen since April. Through the gentle flow of bodies, a face caught his eye. Like looking at a painting, more haunting than an old vault, the woman turned slightly until she was staring directly at him. A moment later, she and two other men stepped into the Tall Pine Inn.

“We can always count on you,” Owen said. “Well done.”

“Thank you. Please, excuse me.”

He reached the door to the inn.

“Well, good afternoon,” Eileen greeted. “What do we owe the pleasure?”

The woman wasn’t in the lobby, but he located her in the far corner of the attached restaurant. She’d spotted him too.

He slipped the leather strap off his shoulder and handed the girl his rifle. “Put these behind the counter for me, would you?” He also handed over his concealed revolver.

“Oh. Sure.”

Approaching her was like walking through fire. The room was empty, except for furniture, but the party at the far end remained standing. She looked very clean, and healthy. One of her companions, clearly too handsome to be human, intercepted him.

“We have no business with you,” he said, palm outstretched in the universal sign for “stop.”

“I thought coursers weren’t allowed to kill anymore.” He walked around the synth and stopped in front of the woman.

“Hello, Nora,” he said.

She tipped her head, squinting at him. “Do I know you?”

He swallowed, wilting under her scrutiny and that of her bodyguards. “I’m glad to see you’re doing well.”

She said nothing.

“What brings you here?”

“Just passing through,” she replied. “Then again, this was the last place I expected to see you. You’ve gotten old.”

He grinned, though his hands trembled. “Seven years,” he mused. “They’ll do that. I’m especially feeling it in my knees.”

“And you have hair.”

Self-consciously running his hand through the light copper shag, he nodded. “Yeah, I do.”

“I hardly recognized you.”

“Most days, I hardly recognize myself to tell you the truth. Shit! I mean, what I meant to say, was,” he stammered.

Eyes cold, she looked off to the side. “This town, seems like they respect you.”

“You, could say that.” Was this an interrogation? Was she tying up loose ends?

“Live nearby?”

“Yeah. Yeah, just a little ways northeast.” Her silence prompted him to ramble. “It’s a nice little farm. You should come out and see it, sometime.”

“Family?” she asked.

“No. Just me. And the animals.”

“Why?”

“Why?” he echoed, breathless.

“Yes, why? No one fall for your sob story?”

The jab hurt, but he accepted it with a gentle smile. “It’s not like that,” he said quietly. “Not anymore. Thing is, I had my chance, and I blew it. I figured I wasn’t gonna get another chance like that. But now, here you are.” He scratched his beard nervously. “Of course, I’m not making any assumptions about the reason you’re here. Frankly I’m just surprised that I’m still standing.”

She mulled over his statements, inspecting the room. At last, she said, “You’ve changed. I’m only sorry this wasn’t the Deacon I knew seven years ago.”

“Not Deacon. I haven’t been him for a long time.”

Nora rolled her eyes. “Of course. So what name _are_ you going by these days?”

“No more aliases,” he explained. “My name is David.”

Her frown softened.

“I wish I could’ve told you that the last time we spoke,” he said, toeing the floorboards. “There’s a lot of things I wish I could’ve said.”

“David?” she questioned. The old name was made new in her voice. “David . . .”

“That’s right,” he murmured.

“Then,” she said, clenching her hands into fists before forcibly relaxing them. “It’s nice to meet you, David.”

She extended her hand.

David wanted to cry. He wanted to fall at her feet and beg for her forgiveness. He wanted to ask one of her courser buddies to cut out his tongue before he said another word.

He shook her hand. “It’s nice to meet you too, Nora.”


End file.
